“She’ll be all right,” Jenny replied. “She usually is, though I don’t know about a time like this.”
“Jenny, I’ve been thinking. Papa had a good friend in Santa Fe, Wash Keough. Been thinking that maybe I ought to leave you there till I can come back for you.”
Her head snapped up again. “What?”
“I said, I’ve been thinking that—”
She pushed away his arm. “Oh, I heard you, Jason Fury. You will not drop me off along the trail, you hear me?”
“But I thought you might be happier if—”
“Since when is anybody concerned about my happiness? I won’t stay, I tell you. I’ll grab the first horse I see and take out after you.”
He slid his arm around her stiff little shoulders. “Now, now, Jen. Can’t have you hanged for a horse thief. Guess I’ll have to take you all the way with me, then, just to keep you out of prison.”
Some of the stiffness went out of her, and she said, “You promise? You know, they hang horse thieves.”
He nodded. “I know. And I promise, Jenny, you won’t hang.”
* * *
Night fell.
Matt MacDonald crouched in front of his fire, alone, missing his father’s company.
No, not really. Not missing his company. Just . . . regretful. And put out.
Yes, put out. It was all so damned inconvenient. Well, he did feel a little sad about his father, but was it only because he was supposed to? Was it just because he was used to him? After all, Hamish was the only father he’d ever known. He was the only grown man he’d known all his life. He supposed he should feel sorrow.
But mostly, he felt put upon for having to ride up this damned mountain in the first place, and for having to watch all his belongings tumble down all to Hell. Also, for the knowledge that he was going to have to navigate this lousy excuse for a trail all the way to Santa Fe, and all by himself.
And for the fact that he had no dinner. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of a bird, let along a jackrabbit, all damn afternoon. All he had along was some hardtack, in bits in the bottom of his saddlebags, and he’d eaten the last crumbs by about four o’clock. He was thinking very fondly of beans and beef. He’d just have to do without. Tomorrow he could find something to shoot and eat.
He wondered if the train had come across what remained of his father and the rig. He wondered if it had even rolled and fallen that far, or if it had crashed behind them. Nothing could have survived that fall. Not a horse, not his father. Not the wagon. Nothing.
Stomach growling, he lay down in the middle of that rutted trail and tried to sleep.
Chapter 24
Several days later, when Jason and the wagons pulled into the dusty town of Santa Fe, Matt was waiting for them. He waited until he saw Jason dismount. Then he walked out into the open, right up to him, tapped him on the shoulder, and slugged him in the jaw when he turned around.
Having rehearsed this scene in his mind over and over, he had expected Jason to go down. Maybe even fly back a couple of feet.
But not only did he not go down, he punched back. Hard. The blow to his stomach sent Matt back, doubled over and staggering and waiting for Jason to strike again, but he didn’t. He just stood there, glowering and rubbing his face.
“What’s your problem, MacDonald?” he half-shouted.
Men from the other wagons were running up by this time. Through the pain, Matt heard Saul Cohen shouting something or other. He hoped it was, “Jason’s gone crazy! Get him!”
But apparently, it wasn’t, because when Saul’s boot steps reached Matt, he felt arms wrestle him to the ground, and finally realized that Saul Cohen and Salmon Kendall had him down and pinned. “You idiot,” Saul hissed into his ear.
“Let go!” he shouted. “I’m gonna kill you, Jason Fury!”
He heard, more than felt, somebody slip the revolvers from his holsters, and then arms yanked him to his feet.
“Señores,” came an unfamiliar voice, “is there a problem?”
The voice belonged to a big Mexican, complete with badge. “Must I repeat myself?” he asked, and this time he looked a little perturbed.
“There’s no problem,” said Jason, as Kendall and Cohen slowly released Matthew. Matt shook himself out.
“No,” Matt said, glaring at Jason. “No problem at all.” That you need to butt into.
The deputy stood there a moment longer, until he was satisfied there wasn’t going to be a fistfight, Matt supposed, and then he walked on without further word. When he passed out of sight, Kendall and Cohen released Matt, although they both stood too close. Matt took a step forward, toward Jason.
“My pa’s dead because of you,” he said. “That’s something I won’t forget. Ever. You get me?”
Jason said, “Don’t suppose you will. Even if it’s not true.”
Saul Cohen butted in. “Now, Matthew, your papa made his own decision. Didn’t we all hear him, Salmon?”
“I sure did,” Salmon Kendall agreed. “Heard him plain.”
“Just be thankful you were with him,” Saul added. “He might not have lasted so long as he did without his blood beside him.”
Jason remained silent.
Matt pretended he hadn’t heard a word out of either Saul or Salmon and grumbled, “You’ll pay for this, Fury. Sooner or later, you’ll pay and I’ll be there, takin’ the toll.”
* * *
After getting the last wagon in place and seeing that each family was settled in, Jason set out to see the dusty little town of Santa Fe and look up his father’s old friend, Wash Keough. Saul tagged along, with a shopping list from Rachael tucked into his pocket.
Santa Fe was a wonderland to Saul. Most of the buildings were made of a clay mud—which, Jason informed him, was called adobe—which was whitewashed to glimmer in the sun. Some buildings were plainly Spanish in their architecture, and others were, well, American. Plain. A little dirty-looking.
Saul was shocked at the dead animals left to rot in the streets, though Jason seemed to pay them no mind. He was aghast when they passed a cantina that looked to be a brothel, too, and when he stopped to watch a wheelwright at work, crafting spindles for a buggy wheel, Jason had to tug on his arm to get him moving again.
“This is some strange place,” he said. They passed a beautiful señorita, dressed all in black and followed by an older woman and two men carrying guns.
Jason saw him looking and said, “That’s Miss Constanza Corboda, with her companion and her bodyguards. Rich, really Old World Spanish, if you know what I mean.”
Saul didn’t, but nodded his head anyway. He was too busy taking everything in to be distracted by explanations.
At last, Jason turned into the front walk of a small white house, adobe in construction, and rapped on the turquoise-painted, chipped front door. Red, dried, and hard fruits of some kind hung on it in a huge bunch.
“That’s called a chile ristra,” said Jason.
The door opened and a smallish, gray-haired man with his hair in a long horse tail—nearly to his waist—a face like an ax blade, a big grizzled mustache, and a little potbelly under his long pink underwear stood there for a moment, then cried out, “Jason? Jason Fury?” and latched onto the boy like a starving tick to a passing dog. Saul noted that the horse tail was so long that the very ends of it were still shot through with a little brown.
Jason slapped the old fellow on his back, crying, “Howdy, Wash. How goes it?”
“Fine, fine,” said the man, who Saul guessed to be Wash Keough. “Well, come in! What you doin’, standin’ on a man’s front stoop all the day?”
Saul followed Jason in, although he had yet to be introduced. However, Mr. Keough didn’t seem too inclined toward the formalities, so Saul decided he needn’t be, either. He waited until Keough led them to the kitchen and put on the coffeepot before he stuck out his hand and said, “Saul Cohen, sir. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance.”
“Well, I’m sorry there, Mr. Cohen,” Ke
ough boomed happily. He was short, but he filled the room, and Saul could see why he had been a friend of Jedediah Fury. Both of them were larger-than-life characters. “I’m right pleased to meet you,” he went on, still pumping Saul’s hand. “Any friend of Jason’s is a friend’a mine. Where’s your pa, anyhow, Jason? That ol’ mule skinner owes me a game’a checkers.”
He let go of Saul’s hand, and Saul fairly collapsed into a chair. He tried not to listen while Jason told Keough about his father’s death. The words of it washed over him, but he heard the thickness in Jason’s voice, and the sorrow in the voices of both men.
He fervently hoped that no one would cry, and then said a quick prayer for forgiveness. He shouldn’t be worried about being embarrassed at a time like this.
But no one cried, thank God. In fact, no one so much as spoke a word once the news had been passed on. Keough poured out the coffee, or at least, what was passing for it, then joined them at the crude table.
“That’s tough,” Keough said at last. “That’s mighty tough for you, Jason. But it had to happen sooner or later. A man pushes his luck with redskins too much, he’s bound to get arrow-shot sooner or later. You’re damn lucky they didn’t take off with all your womenfolk, too.”
Jason sighed, and then launched into the story of trailing Quanah Parker, and the subsequent dice game for the girls and the livestock.
Despite his sorrow over Jedediah’s death, Wash Keough seemed to find this part hilarious. He laughed and laughed, and Saul found himself wondering if the man would think it so amusing if he had been there.
“Jason, you say Saul here thought up makin’ the dice?” he boomed.
Saul nodded weakly, just remembering how scared he’d been. How scared they’d all been.
Suddenly, Keough slapped him on the back. “By God, Saul, that was some kind of quick thinking! Jedediah would’a been proud of the both’a you! So, where you headed this time, Jason? California? Arizona? Maybe up Denver way?”
* * *
As it turned out, it didn’t much matter to Wash Keough where their destination was. He was passing fifty, had not one cent to his name, and he was ready for a new start. Jason figured it was about the fifteenth new start Wash had undertaken.
Jason was happy for him to tag along. Hell, he was delighted to hire him and pay him thirty dollars and found. Wash was as close a thing to a mountain man as they were likely to run across, and he’d traversed the trail west more than most. Probably about as many times as Jedediah had, if not more.
But there was one thing—Wash had to “test out the grub” before he made his final decision.
“Be proud for you to,” Jason said as they all three walked back through town, to the place where Jason had left the wagons. “We’ve got a mess of really good cooks. You’ll be surprised.”
“Hope so, Jason,” Wash said.
“Oy!” Saul said suddenly. He stopped and put a hand over his heart. “Rachael’s list!”
“Better take care of that, Saul,” Jason said with a smile. “She’ll have your guts for garters otherwise.”
Saul wiggled his brows. “I assure you, Mr. Keough, the ramifications would not be so terrible.” He plucked the list from his pocket. “But almost.” Saul ducked into the nearest mercantile.
“Hope he don’t forget sugar cubes,” said Wash, trying to appear philosophical, “in case we run into some like-minded Apaches.”
“Good thinking,” said Jason.
They had walked to the southernmost part of town, where the wagons waited, before either of them spoke again.
“Got a sizable herd there, boy,” Wash commented.
“It’s smaller when everybody’s hitched up,” Jason said, before he thought.
“Well, of course it is,” Wash snapped. “You take me for an idiot?” Then his mood lightened considerably. “Say, what’s that I smell? Is that fried taters and onions?” He sniffed the air again. “Is that beef? I ain’t had beef in a coon’s age, let alone woman-cookin’!”
Jason said, “You’ll have both tonight, Wash. While we’re waiting, let me introduce you around.”
“Just don’t go ’specting me to recamember half the folks I shake hands with. Never was good with names, and I find I’m gettin’ worse in my old age.”
Jason introduced him to nearly everyone in the caravan, and spent the time walking between wagons to give him a quick rundown on everyone he’d just met.
“That’s gal’s mighty sweet on you,” Wash said after they left Abigail Krimp’s wagon.
“The feeling’s not mutual.”
“You got somebody else?”
“No. Yes . . . I mean, no.”
Olympia Morelli, the newborn strapped to her back like an Indian papoose, was up and around and directing the meal preparation. Rachael Cohen shot Jason a questioning glance when the introductions were made, and Jason quickly said, “Saul’s at the mercantile.”
“So where else should he be?” she replied with a shrug.
“Them wouldn’t happen to be dried apple pies bakin’ in them covered skillets, would it?” Wash asked. His nose was working again, and he wiped away a little drool at the corner of his mustache.
“Yes, they would, Mr. Keough,” Rachael answered. “I shall be sure to save you a large piece.”
Jason had never seen the old desert rat beam so wide.
“What happened, Wash?” he asked. “Why are you so broke?” It appeared as if Wash hadn’t eaten a decent meal in a month of Sundays with a couple of Saturdays tossed in.
“Thieves,” was what Wash said. “Thieves and miscreants.” He said it with a “that’s that” air, and Jason didn’t press him further.
Later, Wash ate with Jason, Saul, and Salmon, and Wash told Jason that he’d been eating nothing but snake for the last two weeks.
“Hell, I murdered the last jackrabbit in Santa Fe months ago,” Wash said. “And I was about to run outta snake.”
“Run out?” Salmon asked.
“How could a man run out of snakes in this country?” Saul asked.
Wash drew his gun and opened the chamber. “Only two slugs left, see?”
Jason said, “Don’t worry. I’ll supply the ammo.”
“Fair ’nough.” All of a sudden, he sat straight up. “That your woman I see comin’ there, Saul? The one with that good apple pie all plated up?”
Again, he licked away a touch of drool at the corner of his mustache.
Chapter 25
The wagon train stayed over in Santa Fe for the next day, too. Jason figured that folks needed some time to get their land legs again, and the women were especially glad for the chance to stock up for the remainder of the journey. The men took care of all sorts of little repairs that they’d let pile up, and then collected in the nearest cantinas for beer and gossip.
The women weren’t the only ones who liked to talk.
Matt MacDonald wisely kept his distance. Jason didn’t see him, although he heard that the few surviving possessions that were Matt’s or his father’s were being carried by Nordstrom, and those of his sister were being carried by, well, him.
Jenny at work again.
But he overheard snatches of whispers when people thought he couldn’t hear. They told him nothing new, just reinforced what he already knew.
That Matthew MacDonald was planning on killing him.
There wasn’t much he could do about it, save for walking up to Matt, bold-faced, and shooting him through the heart. All he could do was just wait and see what happened, try to keep an eye on the slippery son of a bitch in the meantime, and above all, stay alive.
By the time the wagons were ready to pull out and head west once more, Wash Keough had regaled the entire camp with stories about Jedediah, running back to when he was a trapper and ranged the Rocky Mountains. Jason noticed that the entire camp also knew about Quanah Parker and the sugar-cube dice game now, too.
Actually, Jason was growing a little embarrassed about it.
He caught sigh
t of Matt about a half hour after they pulled out. Matt was on horseback, riding alongside the Milchers’ wagon and deep in conversation with the Reverend Milcher. Jason preferred to think that the reverend was counseling Matt on the loss of his father, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Milcher was in on the plan to do him harm.
But that was just stupid, wasn’t it? There wouldn’t be a plan, not an organized one if he knew Matt, and even if there was, Milcher wouldn’t be in on it. He was too much the pacifist. He could barely kill an animal for the supper table.
Still, just the fact that Matt and Milcher were talking made Jason a little bit mad.
And the fact that Megan was still there, constantly in his thoughts, frustrated him no end. He had made a point of steering clear of her.
But now they were moving again. Now they’d swing southwest, traveling down through Chiricahua Apache territory, and then up to Tucson. Then it would be north a few more days until they came to the north end of the Santa Rita range, then west over to California.
It all sounded so simple when you just thought about the route or saw it on paper. Deceptively simple.
There were the White Mountain Apaches to get by, then the Chiricahuas down around Apache Pass. Apaches left and right, as thick as proverbial thieves. The Maricopa and Hopi Indians he wasn’t too worried about, nor the Pimas, seeing as how they were fairly peaceable by nature. But the Yaqui tribe, over by the California border country, he was very much concerned about.
And Wash was no help. Oh, he was full of stories about white men being burned or flayed or skinned alive by Apache; men having their privates hacked off—women, too—babies impaled on spears, and torture beyond any measure of reason. Jason had to warn him not to tell those tales around the other parties in the train, particularly the women.
“Aw, goldurn it, anyhow, Jason. Why you gotta take the fun outta everything?” Wash had complained. He grinned when he said it, though.
* * *
Conversely, Wash had himself been filled in on every action, idea, overstepped boundary, and implied insult suffered by each and every member of the train since they’d left Kansas City.
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